


In the Storm

by Luke1813



Series: On the Path Series [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Fantasy, Gen, Spooky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-15 13:27:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29559795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luke1813/pseuds/Luke1813
Summary: Two years after the events in the kingdom of Dothan, we follow a much more experienced Geralt as he travels further down the Path.About a year ago, I started a novel-length sequel to 'On the Path,' my Geralt of Rivia origin story. After writing about half of it, I realized that it was garbage and abandoned it. I recently went back and re-read the chapters to discover that my initial evaluation was correct. It's still garbage.  However, there were a couple of scenes that I thought weren't completely awful. So, I decided to post them below. Who knows? Maybe someone will enjoy them.
Series: On the Path Series [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1743808





	In the Storm

The half-moon was high overhead, but whatever illumination it may have reflected towards the land below was completely swallowed up by the thick clouds blanketing the sky. Not a single ray of light penetrated the dense canopy of the Dhuwoed forest, and further below, on the marshy, forest floor, an assortment of predators lurked in the darkness anticipating their next meal. An arborantula, a hairy-legged tree-spider the size of a large cat, spun its intricate web amongst the limbs of several oaks. A venomous centipede as thick and as long as a man’s arm hid in a nearby rotten log. And the serrated maw of an enormous, carnivorous plant was agape, poised to snap shut the instant an unsuspecting victim – attracted by the sweet scent of its nectar – came within reach. But there was one predator that was not patiently lying in-wait. One predator was in pursuit.

The witcher stood perfectly still amidst the woods, and a single drop of sweat fell from the tip of his nose. He hadn’t bothered to wipe it away for both hands gripped his sword. While his heartrate and breathing were slow and steady, his muscles were vibrating with power due to the elixir he’d just consumed a minute prior. An elixir he’d taken because of what he’d smelled - the faintest odor of something cooking. No normal human could have ever detected the scent – especially through the heavy, peaty stench that filled the humid air. But his mutated senses were able to pick up the trace of onion, garlic, tubers and…something else, he thought. The witcher inhaled deeply again and gave the tiniest nod of his head. It was definitely the smell of flesh – some kind of meat. He was fairly sure what kind it was. He slowly swiveled his head from left to right, letting his cat-like eyes scan the darkness. Other than the arborantula, he saw no movement, and he saw no light-source anywhere. Still, he knew he was on the right track.

He took in a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and then began weaving his way through the woods, leaving shallow boot prints in the spongy, grass-covered soil. He was one with the darkness, stepping over the rotten log, ducking under low-hanging branches, and carefully avoiding the arborantula’s trap. In fact, he was so at home in the forest that he barely even made a sound, his clothes silently brushing against the leaves of small shrubs as he glided past them. Whatever slight noise he did produce was drowned out by the incessant chirping of crickets and cicadas, the hooting of a nearby owl, and the occasional croaking of far-off bullfrogs.

For ten minutes or more, the witcher continued to move quietly through the woods following the scent when suddenly he stopped, his brow furrowed. A strange mist was ahead, and behind it was the gnarliest thicket he’d ever seen. It seemed to rise straight up from the forest floor like some kind of fortress wall. Tree limbs, vines, and thorny plants were so twisted together that he thought passing through would be next to impossible. He crouched down near a bush – to help blend in more with his surroundings - and breathed in deeply through his nose. He silently cursed to himself because the culinary odor was definitely coming from either somewhere inside the thicket or on the other side of it. He glanced to his left and right, saw that the thicket was almost a hundred feet wide, and shook his head. A moment later, he stood, walked into the fog, and approached the tangled mass of trees, vines, and other flora in order to inspect it more closely. Half way there, his wolf-head medallion vibrated against his chest, and he immediately brought his sword up in front of him in a defensive position, expecting a foglet or some other forest monster to attack. Quickly turning in a circle, he scanned up and down and in every direction. He continued in a slow pivot for almost half a minute – his muscles twitching in anticipation of a fight - but when it became apparent that there was no imminent danger coming his way, he eventually turned back toward the thicket. He squinted his eyes and nodded as a memory came to mind. He’d seen something like this before. He lifted his sword in front of him again and cautiously took a few steps forward. 

The monster-hunter stopped a pace from the edge of the dense thicket, took a deep breath, and slowly plunged the tip of his blade forward. He exhaled and nodded his head when his sword passed through with no resistance. It was an illusion, just as he’d thought. He retracted his blade, took another deep breath, and then stepped through the twisted limbs and vines. A moment later, he found himself on the edge of a small clearing, in the middle of which stood a ramshackle cabin with a thatched roof. He immediately moved behind cover of a nearby tree and poked his head out, peering intently at what lay ahead.

The exterior of the wooden shack was shrouded in darkness. There was still no illumination from the moon above, nor were there any lit lanterns or torches on its outer walls. However, he could see a light source through the two open windows – one on each side of the front door. The way the light flickered and danced in the interior of the cabin he figured it was from an open fire – most likely from a hearth. He glanced up to see a wispy column of smoke trailing up from a small chimney and nodded his head. That was when he suddenly noticed that the scent that he’d been following earlier through the forest was much more potent on this side of the illusion. The odor of spices and boiled meat was unmistakable. The witcher now had no doubt that whoever was inside the cabin was definitely cooking something. 

He continued to observe the cabin, and his breath momentarily caught in his throat when he saw a silhouette pass by one of the windows. But it had passed too quickly for him to discern any details other than it had long hair and was of medium stature. His eyes quickly scanned back and forth – from one window to the next – hoping to get another glimpse of the being inside. But two minutes later, he still hadn’t caught sight of whoever – or whatever – was in the cabin so he decided to move forward for a closer inspection. Before doing so, however, he took his left hand off of the handle of his sword and slid it across the bandolier strapped to his chest. Feeling his throwing knives in place made him nod his head once to himself, and then he reached further down to touch the two explosive cannisters attached to his belt. He exhaled quietly, stepped out from behind the tree, and moved cautiously toward the cabin, his eyes in constant motion and his ears tuned into every sound.

The witcher was halfway across the clearing when he suddenly halted. He swiveled his head to one side and then quickly to the other. For something had just come alive in the darkened woods that surrounded him. And whatever it was, it wasn’t alone. He could hear faint rustling noises coming from every direction. A swarm of unknown creatures was moving along the underbrush of the forest floor, and the sounds were getting louder. Whatever had just woken up, they were coming his way, and they were moving with great speed. He began turning in a circle – his eyes wide and his heart now beating just a bit faster. He peered as hard as he could into the thick woods, but, even with his enhanced vision, he could see nothing. Nothing but dense foliage and darkness. As he listened to the monsters make their approach, he gripped his sword tighter and took long, slow, deep breaths. The creatures were now so near that he could hear another sound, as well - the sound of their mandibles rapidly clicking together. They were either communicating with one another, or they were simply anticipating a meal. The witcher swallowed hard and took one, last deep breath while his eyes darted back and forth, awaiting the danger that was heading straight for him.

And, all at once, a dozen arborantulas burst forth from the trees around him. The cat-sized, spider-like creatures skittered across the clearing, their eight, hairy legs moving so fast that it looked like they were barely touching the ground. The witcher spun on his heal, seeing that he was surrounded. In a blink of an eye, they were on him, several of them leaping towards his body, and instantly he moved. He slammed the ground with an Aard Sweep, and the telekinetic force blasted all the monsters several paces back. But they quickly righted themselves and attacked again, the clicking sound from their mandibles filling the night air and foretelling their intent. He immediately cast a continuous stream of Igni flames from his left to his right – catching several of the creatures on fire – and then he spun to face the arborantulas behind him. His eyes went wide, seeing a spider coming right at his face. All eight of its legs were spread wide, and its long fangs were ready to sink in deep. In a flash, he ducked down, the spider’s legs just missing the top of his head. Two more arborantulas sprung at him, and, coming out of his crouch, he swung his sword impossibly fast – slicing both creatures in two, their yellowish-green pus flying through the air.

He cast another Igni flame towards three more of the spiders but stopped short when he felt one of the monsters land on his back and a second one crawling up his leg. The one on his back skittered up to his head, where it then dug its bristly legs into the witcher’s long, white hair. But before it had a chance to bite, he reached up and snagged one of its legs in his hand. He slammed it to the ground in front of him and, an instant later, drove his sword downward, skewering its thorax. 

Just as he was pulling his blade free, he felt a sharp pain in his leg and grimaced. He looked down to see the other arborantula attached to his thigh, its eight legs completely encircling his. It had sunk its fangs right through his trousers and into his muscle, and its cluster of round, black eyes seemed to be staring straight up at him. But only for a second, because he immediately thrust the tip of his sword through them and into the creature’s brain.

With a snap of his wrist, the witcher flung the skewered corpse from his blade and was just lifting his eyes to see what was the left of his attackers when he heard a faint whooshing sound coming from high above and to his left. He glanced up to see a large, black shape – silhouetted against the night sky – flying right at him. He immediately cast a Quen Sign and dove to his right an instant before he was completely engulfed in flames. He rolled back and forth on the ground several times, extinguishing the flames, and then he quickly jumped to his feet. Though the Quen shield had taken most of the damage from the fire, his gambeson and trousers were still singed, and he had to pat out a small flame on his sleeve. He immediately cast another Quen, scanned the clearing to see that all the arborantulas were either dead or dying, and then searched the sky above him. He caught a movement in the air to his right and saw his new enemy flying fast towards him again. This time, however, he had enough to time to see exactly what his enemy was - a witch that looked as if she came straight out of the fairytales that he’d heard in his childhood. She had wrinkled, greenish skin; blazing eyes; and wild, gray hair that – like her black cloak – fluttered in the wind behind her. She was zooming right at him on a broom and with a bomb held high in her right hand. Only the fact that she wasn’t madly cackling ruined the cliché.

This time the monster-slayer saw the bomb coming and was able to dive away, avoiding the fiery flames when it exploded against the ground. As he rolled back onto his feet, he quickly grabbed a throwing knife from his bandolier and slung it high and hard toward the back of the witch. He heard her cry out in pain, but she didn’t fall from her broom. His knife obviously hadn’t caused immediate fatal damage so he prepared himself for her next attack by grabbing one of his own bombs in his right hand. 

On the next pass, the witch didn’t fly so low – clearly afraid of his throwing knives. Just as she was about to rear back and hurl a third explosive, the witcher beat her to the punch. He heaved his small, spherical bomb with as much force as he could, and the explosive flew true, hitting her in the chest and detonating on contact. She screamed out in fury as the flames seared her cloak and hair, and then she veered out of control and straight through the thatched roof of the cabin. 

The witcher only stood still for a few seconds. In a flash, he ran across the clearing, coming to a stop near one of the open windows. He peaked inside and immediately dove through the opening and into the shack. He rolled when he hit the floor, coming up on one knee and with his sword at the ready. In the middle of the room – underneath the hole in the roof - was a small table that was broken into pieces and a couple of chairs that were both tipped over onto their sides. Near that mess was the witch’s broom. A broom snapped in two. He glanced at the hearth on the far side of the room and saw a large, cast-iron pot above the flames with steam billowing over the edges. To one side of the hearth was a table on top of which sat an old mortar and pestle and a variety of roots and herbs strewn about. On the other side stood a long, rectangular counter, its surface scarred and stained reddish-black. The tip of a bloody meat cleaver had been slammed into the middle of the counter-top, its wooden handle sticking up, awaiting its owner’s return. The monster-slayer registered all of that in a little more than a second, but what he didn’t see was the witch. 

Suddenly, he caught a slight movement and a faint noise coming from his right. He spun that way to see a young woman in the shadows next to a large trunk. She was sitting on the floor against the wall with her arms behind her back and her knees pulled up to her chest. Her dress was torn, filthy, and spotted with blood. Her hair was a tangled mess. And her face, though smudged with dirt and grime, was quite pretty. She was staring wide-eyed at the witcher, her breathing fast and shallow. 

“Help me,” she whispered. “Please.”

Immediately, the White Wolf lifted a finger to his lips and shook his head before quickly turning around to examine the rest of the cabin. There was no danger behind him – only a bed and a set of shelves filled with tomes - but when he faced the young woman again, he noticed a door off to his left between the woman and the hearth. The door was slightly ajar and led to a completely dark room. He looked back at the woman and pointed at the open door while raising an eyebrow. She nodded back in confirmation. She still had her arms behind her back, and he assumed that her wrists must have been tied together. He moved quietly around the broken table and toppled chairs and was heading toward the open door when he suddenly stopped in his tracks. His witcher medallion had twitched again – just as he was passing the young woman. He glanced at the nearby open door and stared into the darkened room for a moment before he eventually turned back to the woman and crouched down near her clean, bare feet. Ignoring the pain that was starting to radiate out from his thigh, he rested his elbows on his knees, holding his sword slightly to his side.

“Are…are you here to save me?” she asked in a trembling whisper.

The witcher didn’t answer. He just stared intently into her face. Despite the condition she was in, she was beautiful. She possessed shiny, black hair, white teeth, a thin nose, and flawless skin. Even the dirt that was smudged across her forehead and on both her cheeks couldn’t hide her beauty.

“Please, untie me,” she begged. “She’s crazy. She’s going to kill me.”

But the witcher still didn’t answer. Nor did he make a move. He was crouched perfectly still, staring deeply into her eyes. Eyes that, suddenly, went wide as she screamed.

“Behind you!”

The witcher’s blade flashed through the air just as the woman’s arms were moving from behind her. Immediately, blood spurted from her neck, and her eyes went wide as she fell back hard against the wall of the cabin. A dagger fell from her grip and clattered to the floor, and then she reached up to her neck with both hands, trying to staunch the flow but to no avail. With each beat of her heart, more blood gushed from the wound and soaked her hands and dress. Finally, the monster-slayer spoke.

“The eyes,” said Geralt in a low voice. “It was a good illusion…except for the eyes. That…and you should’ve ‘magicked up’ some fake tear stains through the dirt on your cheeks. A normal person would have cried at some point.”

The woman couldn’t reply. All she could do was gasp for air. The two of them just continued to stare at one another until finally she coughed a couple of times, bloody spittle dribbling out of her mouth and down her chin. And then a moment later, her hands fell from her neck, and her chin dropped to her chest. At that point, the illusion vanished, and the witch appeared as she had while riding her broom and raining down bombs from above. The witcher reached up, casually scratched the side of his nose, and after letting out a long sigh, he thrust his sword into her chest, skewering her heart. Immediately after, he grabbed the corpse by the hair, removed her head from her neck with a clean strike, and tossed it to the floor. 

It was only then that the witcher finally allowed himself to truly notice his injuries, especially the one on his leg. After resting his sword against the nearby wall, he reached into the small satchel at his waist and found a metal vial that had ‘WH’ scratched on its surface. He swallowed down the witcher potion, and then he lowered his trousers to his knees. The wound was bleeding and inflamed, and he noticed that one of the arborantula’s fangs – about half the length of his pinky-finger - was still embedded into the meat of his thigh. He pulled it out, and then, after pouring what was left from the vial onto his fingertips, he rubbed the last drops of elixir into the wound – hoping that the potion would quickly neutralize the toxic venom that had been injected into him.

The teen pulled his trousers back up and reached for his sword resting against the wall. It was covered in both the witch’s blood and the arborantulas’ yellow-green bile. He knelt next to the witch’s corpse at his feet and wiped the blood from his blade on the witch’s cloak. He looked at the sword to see that it was relatively clean, and that’s when he noticed his eyes reflecting back at him in the blade. He stared at himself for the longest time, the same thought running through his mind. The same damn question that he had asked himself virtually every day for the last year – ever since he had resigned himself to the Path.

_‘Why the hell am I doing this?’_

Finally, he broke his gaze from his reflection and sighed.

“Because you need the coin…and it’s all you bloody-well know.”

With that, he stood up and began searching through the rest of the witch’s hut.

oOo

The morning sun had been above the horizon for about an hour when the witcher approached the front entrance of the de Boer estate – an estate surrounded by fifteen-foot-high stone walls and protected by a thick, wooden gate. Above the gate was a small barbican which, he knew, housed a few guards. He called out to get their attention, and after identifying himself, the front gate opened a few moments later. One of the guards mounted a nearby horse, and then the two of them made their way up to the manor.

The de Boer estate was an enormous property about a half-day’s ride north of Assengard, Nazair’s capital. It was situated near the Ruysch River, which flowed south out of the Amell Mountains and into the Yelena, and due to its proximity to the river, the lands of the estate were green and fertile – perfect for growing crops. Baron Pauel de Boer, like virtually every noble, had inherited his title and lands from his father, but he’d also expanded his wealth through shrewd business acumen. He owned a variety of businesses: ship building, cinnabarite mining, and Nazairi rose cultivation – just to name a few. Of course, Geralt cared nothing about that. In fact, the truth was that he loathed nobles and all they represented. As far as the witcher was concerned, de Boer’s titles, land, and money were only relevant insofar as it meant that the baron would have no trouble paying off the contract.

It wasn’t long before the guard next to him coughed and then spoke.

“So, you killed the monster, eh?” he said, nodding his chin towards the burlap sack that was attached to a hook on the back of Roach’s saddle. The bottom third of the sack was stained dark red with blood. The stench of decay permeated the air around it, and several large flies circled about.

Geralt glanced at the guard, who didn’t look much older than himself. The young man was in his early twenties at the most. The monster-hunter didn’t bother to speak. He simply gave a curt nod and then brought his eyes back toward the lane in front of him as the two horses slowly clip-clopped along.

“So, what was it? A kynora or a lyxel?” The excitement in his voice was unmistakable.

The witcher furrowed his brow and turned his head to look at the guard.

“You’re just makin’ shit up, aren’t you?”

“What? No. I’m -”

“A kynora? A lyxel?” interrupted the teen. “Those words are nonsense. There aren’t any monsters called that.”

“Oh. Really? Are you sure?”

The witcher furrowed his brow even deeper and peered straight into the guard’s eyes.

“Yeah…I’m sure.” He shook his head and then faced forward again.

“So, then, what was it?”

Geralt let out a small sigh. He turned and gazed hard at the guard.

“You gonna pay my contract?

“What? Uh, no.”

“Then, mind your own business. I discuss contracts with the one who controls the coin-purse. Nobody else.”

The guard glared at the witcher and clenched his jaws. Geralt heard him mutter, “Piemellikker,’ under his breath right before he spurred his mount forward.

But he couldn’t have cared less about being cursed at by the guard. He’d stopped being bothered by insults and name-calling a long time ago because, truthfully, it was impossible to be insulted by people you didn’t care about. Or, at least that’s what he told himself. Regardless, for the moment, he was just grateful that he was now going to be left alone. He kept Roach at a slow walk and about fifteen feet behind the estate guard as they traversed the road the led up the mansion. The lane was lined on each side by linden trees, and beyond the trees were perfectly manicured lawns, shrubs, and even a few marble statues. The teen shook his head at the opulence and wondered just what he would do – what he would actually spend his money on – if he had that much wealth. He honestly didn’t know, but he was positive it wouldn’t be on marble statues. Probably a better pair of boots and a new jacket to serve as witcher’s armor. Then, he shook his head – realizing that, if he had as much money as de Boer, then he sure as hell wouldn’t be a witcher.

A few minutes later, the two of them approached the estate’s manor. On top of an elevated stone foundation were two stories of dark timber. Both levels of the house were fronted by a porch – the one on the second story not covered - and behind the porches were numerous large windows, in which thick curtains were visible. All along the front of the house were neatly-trimmed rows of the famous Nazairi rose bushes. The flowers were a deep blue, tinged with purple along the edges. Even with the stench of the trophy behind him, the witcher could still detect the roses’ distinct fragrance in the air.

By the time Geralt dismounted his horse, the guard had already knocked on the front door, and a moment later, the majordomo of the house walked briskly to the edge of the porch and looked down his nose at the witcher below.

“The gentleman shall follow me,’ he ordered.

To Geralt’s ear, the word ‘gentleman’ had definitely been laced with condescension, so he didn’t bother to respond. He simply grabbed the foul-smelling, bloody bag off the back of Roach. When he turned to face the majordomo, he noticed that the man’s eyes had widened.

“And what, pray tell, is that?”

“Proof of the kill.”

“Yes, well…perhaps, it would be best if the gentleman waited outside then. Lord de Boer is breaking his fast. He will grant the gentleman an audience at his earliest convenience.”

“I’m sure he will.”

While he waited, the witcher dropped the witch’s head to the ground, grabbed a carrot from his saddle bags, and fed Roach from his hand. Once she had finished her treat, he tenderly rubbed her along her neck. As he moved his hand along her hide – smoothing down her light, gray hair – he spoke gentle words to her.

“You’re a good girl. You know that?”

She peered at him with her big black eyes and softly nickered – as if she understood what he was saying. He imagined that she was replying, _‘But, of course, I am. So, get me another carrot, two-legs.’_

That brought a small smile to his face.

“Once we’re paid, we’ll head to town, and I’ll get you some sugar-cubes, alright? Will that make you happy?” he asked, now petting her gently along the nose.

It was then that he heard the manor’s front door open, and his smile instantly fell from his face. He looked up to see the baron exit the front door and proceed down the steps of the porch. Despite the early hour, he was already impeccably dressed. He was taller than average – just an inch or two shorter than Geralt – with a muscular build. His jerkin was stretched tight over his large shoulders and chest. The teen figured the man was somewhere in his forties since his thick brown hair and short beard were tinged with gray. He approached the witcher with an outstretched hand and an easy smile on his face.

“Splendid! Just splendid! I can’t believe you’re back so quickly.”

Geralt looked at the outstretched hand for a moment – honestly surprised to see it offered - and then back into the face of the baron. The man’s smile was accentuating the crow’s feet wrinkles around his eyes. Finally, the witcher reached forward and gripped the man’s hand – but only briefly. He gave it one squeeze before quickly letting go, but that brief contact was enough for him to register that the baron’s hand was rough and calloused, which again surprised the teen.

Suddenly, the baron’s eyes fell upon the burlap sack at the teen’s feet, and the smile vanished from his face, replaced by a frown.

“Is that the monster that abducted my workers?”

The White Wolf nodded.

The baron quickly glanced behind the witcher.

‘I don’t see any of them with you so…” He sighed. “I suppose none survived?”

Geralt simply shook his head.

“Dreadful. Simply dreadful.” He looked the teen in the eyes. “I’d like to see the monster that killed those fine people.”

“Suit yourself.”

The witcher untied the burlap sack, grabbed the head by the hair, and pulled it out.

He expected the baron to gasp or, perhaps, even vomit at the sight. Instead, his brows were furrowed in confusion.

“A woman? An old woman is responsible?”

“A woodland witch. A nasty one, at that.”

“The crone of Dhuwoed forest,” de Boer said softly, staring at the decapitated head. “I thought the tales were make-believe. Night time stories told for fun.” He looked up at Geralt and shook his head. “But why…why would she kill my workers? For what purpose?”

“I guess she was hungry.”

“Hungry? But that makes no sense. Why would should kill -” But he stopped in midsentence when the truth dawned on him, and he clenched his jaws tightly. “So, there were no remains?”

“Not much. Just a few bones and some bloody clothes.”

“And you left them there?”

At that, Geralt reached into his saddle bag and pulled out a yellow jerkin and a light green dress. Both articles of clothing were ripped and covered in dried blood.

“I know you said that three people went missing, but I found no evidence of the third one.”

De Boer took the clothing and shook his head. 

“These confirm it. It’s what Nelis and Eeke were wearing when they were last seen. And the bones?” he asked, looking again at the witcher.

“Bringing back remains wasn’t part of the deal. You should’ve specified that in the contract if that’s what you wanted.”

The baron nodded his head. “Right, right. I didn’t even think about it at the time. I suppose I was hoping that they were still alive. I guess I’ve always been too optimistic.”

The witcher didn’t say anything, but he thought, _“Because you live behind your big, protective walls, safe from the real world. You’ve probably gotten everything you’ve ever wanted in life.”_

“Well, you’ll have to tell me where the remains are before you leave. I know the families will want to give them a proper burial.”

The witcher then noticed de Boer giving him a once over. He knew that he probably looked like hell. His left eyebrow and some hair on that side of his head were slightly singed, and his gambeson and trousers were marred with scorch marks and even a few holes from the flames from the witch’s bomb.

“It appears it was a tough fight,” stated the baron. “You weren’t seriously injured, I hope. Are you well?”

Suspicion caused the teen to furrow his brow. For nobody asked about his well-being – ever.

“Yeah,” he eventually answered. “I’m fine.’

“That’s excellent to hear,” said de Boer with a smile. “Now, if you would, please come inside, Master Witcher. Your payment awaits.”

Geralt didn’t immediately move. Instead, he looked past the lord of the manor and through the open front door of the house. When he didn’t detect any guards lurking within, he glanced quickly at the windows, trying to see if there was any danger there. Not seeing any, he gave a slight nod of his head, but he also reached up and adjusted the strap across his chest – putting the hilt of his steel sword in just the right position.

“And this?” Geralt asked, lifting the decapitated head.

“Oh, yes…that. Hervert!” de Boer suddenly shouted, turning his head slightly. “Dispose of this.”

The steward’s eyes bulged slightly, and he swallowed hard, but then he clicked his heels together sharply and gave a quick bow of his head.

“Right away, my lord.”

Geralt dropped the head back into the bag and followed the baron up the front porch steps. As he handed the bloody sack to the majordomo, a small smirk came to his lips when he saw the look of disgust on the man’s face. He followed de Boer through the front door and into the expansive, front foyer where two sets of stairs – one on each side of the foyer – led up to the second floor. Oil paintings, a large tapestry displaying a coat of arms, and a few pieces of armor and weapons all decorated the walls, and the hardwood floor was varnished to a high shine. This was the first time that the teen had been inside the house – during his initial visit to the estate, he and the baron had negotiated the contract on the front porch – but he wasn’t shocked by the display of wealth. It matched what he’d seen of the grounds. But he also wasn’t impressed by it either. As nice as the man’s home was, it couldn’t remotely compare to extravagance of the royal Dothan palace. He’d spent a few days there roughly two years ago, and if he’d learned anything during that contract, it was that wealth wasn’t synonymous with goodness…and that appearances were often deceiving. ~~~~

The two men headed towards the back of the house where de Boer led Geralt into his study. It was a large room with filled bookshelves along the walls, and it smelled of leather and tobacco. To the left, through the windows and a set of double-doors, the teen could see a covered patio that overlooked a backyard full of well-tended trees, shrubs and flower-bushes. The morning sunlight was shining through the windows, bathing the study in its warm glow. The baron sat behind an oak desk and motioned Geralt to take a seat in a chair opposite. 

The teen was just about to sit down when he noticed the large oil painting on the wall behind the desk, right above the baron’s head. It was a painting filled almost entirely with different shades of blacks, grays, and dark blues, depicting a powerful storm above a raging sea. Lightning backlit the thick clouds while down below, the ocean roiled with enormous waves. In the middle of it all was a small sail boat carrying a solitary man. Though the details of the man were blurred – for the boat and its occupant were miniscule compared to the storm around them - Geralt could tell that the sailor was straining against the ropes, doing his best to tack hard against the wind. But it was obvious that the man’s efforts were no match against the force of nature that was surrounding him on all sides. His tiny vessel was being deluged by the rain, and bearing down on him was an enormous wave - the height of which reached twice that of the boat’s mast. The witcher couldn’t imagine of ever being in a more dire situation, and, though he couldn’t explain why, he simply couldn’t take his eyes off of the painting. There was something about the scene that was striking a chord deep within.

“My hope is that he makes it.”

The baron’s words pulled Geralt from his trance-like state, and when he looked down at de Boer, he noticed that the man had turned his chair so that he, too, could look at the painting.

“Come again?”

De Boer turned back toward the witcher.

“Every time I look at this painting, I always hope he makes it.”

Geralt glanced at the painting to take in the details again before looking at the baron. He then sat down in the chair across from him.

“Because he must be on a noble journey, right?”

The witcher furrowed his brows. “How do you figure that?”

“Well, just look at him. He’s up against insurmountable odds. Risking his life. Why else would he be out there – fighting the storms and waves – unless it was for some noble cause.”

Geralt swallowed and nodded his head slightly.

“Maybe,” he answered. “Or maybe he was just out there minding his own business – simply trying to catch something to eat. And the storm caught him unaware. Maybe there’s no noble cause. Maybe he’s just trying to survive.”

The baron looked intently into the teen’s mutated eyes.

“Perhaps. You might be right. Though I prefer my interpretation.”

“Yeah…and why’s that?”

“It’s more heroic…more inspiring…believing that he’s out there – risking his life - for something greater than himself. Perhaps for someone he loves.”

“Yeah,” said the witcher, a small sneer coming to his lips. “And look where that’s got him.”

The baron didn’t reply to that. He just gave the teen a sad smile.

“Well, I know you didn’t come in here to discuss art,” he finally said, reaching for a desk drawer. “So, let me get you what you’re owed.”

He pulled out a metal box, opened it, and began counting out coins, arranging them in small stacks as he went. When he was done, he pushed two of the stacks towards the witcher.

“Here’s what we agreed to.” He then picked up a third stack and placed it next to the other two. “And here’s a little bonus.”

The witcher looked at the extra stack of coins and then peered hard at the baron.

“Just what exactly do you want?” he asked in a low voice.

“What do you mean?”

“ _Nobody_ just gives away money…so what do you want?”

The baron nodded.

“Well, you are both right and wrong, Master Witcher. Believe it or not, there _are_ people in this world that give away some of their wealth for purely altruistic reasons. So, that’s where you’re mistaken. But, you’re also right…because I _do_ want something from you. Though, what I want has got nothing to do with that bonus there. The extra coin is simply for a job well done. I never expected you to complete the contract so quickly. Plus, it appears as if you could do with a new set of clothes. So, there are no strings attached to that bonus. I’m just grateful to you. You saved a lot of lives.”

“What are you talkin’ about? I didn’t save any lives. I told you – they were all dead.”

The baron clasped his hands together, placed them in his lap, and gave a small shake of his head.

“No, Master Witcher, you _have_ saved lives. An untold number of lives that that evil witch would have taken had you not stopped her.” 

The teen sneered.

“You think what I did truly matters? By next month, hell, maybe sooner, some other evil – probably even worse – will come along and take that witch’s place. I haven’t saved anyone.”

The baron nodded and leaned forward in his chair, resting his forearms on his desk.

“So, you believe there are other monsters in the Dhuwoed?”

“It’s not called the Black Woods for nothing.”

“And I believe you’re right. Which brings me to what I want from you. I’d like to hire you full-time. As my in-house witcher.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Not at all. I’m deadly serious. As you know, my lands don’t just abut the Dhuwoed. They include a large portion of the forest itself. I have countless employees that farm the fields near there, and I have others that cut down the forest’s trees for my ships. But the people that work here are more than just employees to me. When their children are born, I celebrate with them. When a family member dies, I mourn with them. And I don’t want to lose anymore to _anything_ that may be in that forest. So, I’d like to hire you fulltime. You’d receive a monthly salary and a place to stay - one of the estate’s cottages. And all you’d have to do is what you already do – just cull all the monsters in the Dhuwoed.”

At that, Geralt also leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“So, let me get this straight. You want me to kill _all_ the monsters in the Dhuwoed – whether they’re dangerous or not. Is that right?”

“What do you mean ‘or not’? All monsters are dangerous.”

An image of a family of trolls flashed through the witcher’s mind, and he clenched his jaws.

“Then, you know _nothing_ , Lord de Boer. There are plenty of monsters that inhabit this continent that aren’t, by nature, dangerous. Some of them are even gentle and kind. And most of them, you people aren’t even aware of. And that’s because they hide…high up in the mountains or way down in caverns or deep in the forests where you people can’t find them. Because they don’t want _anything_ to do with you humans. They just wish you’d leave them be. But you won’t. You keep encroaching on their homes. You keep pushing them and pushing them until they’ve finally got nowhere else to go. And then you act all _aghast_ and _dismayed_ when they turn around and defend themselves. And you want me to go in there and kill them all? Well, that’s not gonna happen.”

The witcher quickly glanced up at the painting before bringing his eyes back down and glaring hard at the baron.

“I may not be on some noble cause. I may just be a simple witcher. But I’m no murderer. And there’s a big damn difference.”

And with that, the teen stood and grabbed two of the stacks of coins but left the third. As he was exiting the study, he heard the baron calling out to him from behind, but the witcher just ignored him. As he strode down the hall, a woman and two children appeared in an open doorway to his right. His eyes widened, and he suddenly stopped – his anger forgotten and his breath caught in his throat. For the woman had green eyes and long, red hair falling down to her shoulders, and Geralt was instantly reminded of his mother. He stood there for a moment, staring at the woman as memories flashed through his mind. Memories that stabbed him in the heart. Memories of he and his mother sitting at their small kitchen table, talking and laughing as they ate their breakfast. Memories of her tucking him in at night, before telling him bed-time stories of brave knights and fair maidens. He swallowed hard when a final image came to mind. An image that haunted him. An image of their last day together, with her lying on the ground with ripped clothing and covered in blood while he – screaming and in tears – was carried away to Kaer Morhen. 

Seeing the witcher, the well-dressed woman immediately grabbed the children and pulled them behind her, which brought Geralt out of his memories. The fear on the woman’s face was unmistakable, and he quickly broke-eye contact with her. He swallowed again and let out a small sigh and, a moment later, he moved past her toward the front door. After exiting the house, he headed toward Roach, and just as he pulled himself into the saddle, he heard de Boer from the front porch.

“I apologize, Master Witcher.”

Geralt snapped his head up and stared at the man. That had certainly grabbed his attention. 

“I’m sorry that I offended you. And you’re right. I know very little about monsters. So, why don’t you stay…and teach me. My offer still stands - with one addendum. You’ll only kill the monsters that are a threat.”

It was then that Geralt saw the red-headed woman again – the woman who he assumed to be de Boer’s wife - at the front door of the manor. She was still holding her two young children behind her, but both of them were peaking their heads out from either side of her skirt, trying to see the drama unfold. When they saw the witcher looking directly at them, they immediately ducked their heads back, hiding behind their mother. He looked upward into Lady de Boer’s face, the fear he’d seen before still on display. It didn’t surprise him. 

Since leaving Kaer Morhen and encountering the ‘civilized’ world, he’d discovered that most people looked at him with either contempt or dread. Sometimes both. And at first, he hadn’t really understood why. Given that witchers provided a much-needed service – killing dangerous beasts – he had figured that they would, at the very least, be highly respected by the populace that they served. But it hadn’t taken him long to learn that most folks viewed witchers as nothing more than a necessary evil and barely a rung above the actual monsters that they were hired to hunt down. And he knew that much of that prejudice was the fault of witchers, themselves. Over the centuries, they had earned their reputations as cruel and brutal, cold-blooded killers. And the teen wasn’t shocked by that at all – for his experiences at Kaer Morhen had been nothing but cruel and brutal, as well. So, he knew well what his ‘brethren’ were capable of. 

And, if their reputation hadn’t been damaged badly enough by their own actions, then it was made even worse by the lies and rumors that permeated the cities and villages. In time, Geralt had learned that most folks believed that witchers – in addition to being mindless killers - were baby-stealers as well. Whether this rumor was started out of outright malicious intent or simply due to a misunderstanding of the Law of Surprise, the teen didn’t know. But make no mistake, it certainly affected how witchers were perceived.

Initially, he’d tried to change the perceptions of those he encountered. He thought that if he treated people with integrity and respect, then, perhaps, they’d see that not all witchers were worthy of their unsavory reputations. But he’d learned quickly that it rarely mattered. For most, they’d already made up their minds. The distrust and prejudice were too deep, and so it didn’t matter how he acted. They’d always view him as nothing but a baby-stealing, blood-thirsty maniac. So, after a while, he’d simply given up trying. Sometimes, he was amazed at just how naïve and idealistic he’d been when he’d first left Kaer Morhen.

His eyes lingered on the terrified woman for a moment before, eventually, returning to the baron.

“Witchers don’t belong on fancy estates,” he said in his low voice. “We’re meant for the Path.”

Before Geralt could say anything else, de Boer quickly stepped off the porch and approached him. He then held out his hand to the witcher. In it was the third stack of coins.

“Take it. You earned it.”

Several longs seconds passed before Geralt eventually reached down and took the money.

“My offer will always stand…if you ever change your mind.”

The teen just stared at the man with his brow furrowed. He wasn’t sure what to make of the baron. People on the Path simply weren’t this kind. They didn’t treat witchers with respect, and they sure as hell would never apologize to one. And all of that was making the teen’s alarm bells clang. He’d already learned the lesson too well over the course of his short life, and especially over the last two years. People were only nice to you right before they stabbed you in the back. _‘So, trust no one…and keep your sword at the ready.’_ The witcher had a lot of maxims that he lived by, but that one was at the top of the list.

It was then that the baron smiled at him – which made the teen even more wary.

“If you don’t want to work for me, then so be it. Perhaps we could just be friends instead. This is a hard world to sail through – especially alone. We need as many friends as possible. Don’t you think?” He then offered his hand. “You can call me Pauel.”

Geralt glanced at the man’s outstretched hand for a moment, and then he looked over at the Lady de Boer. She had brought a trembling fist up to her mouth, and she looked to be on the verge of tears. Finally, the teen peered back into the baron’s smiling face.

“You can tell your wife to relax, Lord de Boer. I have no interest in killing you…or in stealing your kids.”

He then pulled on the reins and pointed his mount toward the tree-lined road. 

“Let’s go, Roach,” he whispered as he flicked the reins, and then the witcher and his horse rode out of the estate. 


End file.
